True to the End. A story of Scottish life

Chapter I

A TERRIBLE NIGHT. tHE rain came down in a dense, persistent pour. It was such a night as would make you almost forget that it was summer, and wonder whether and when the sky could possibly clear again, and the sunlight shine forth warm and bright. A dense mist completely enwrapt the mountains on either side the loch, whose waters splashed with a dull, angry sound on the rough pier and against the sea-wall at the back of the Court-house.' The storm had swept the one long street of passengers and loiterers, and now seemed to have it all its own way, rattling the tiles on the roof of the old church, and driving the muddy water through the chinks of the house-doors and into the sills of the windows. The clock had struck ten, when a black figure noiselessly crept out of the archway of one of those three-storied houses, so common in Scotland, and B which are tenanted by some half-dozen families.

The figure glided along the street and across the square, heedless of the pelting rain and the sighing wind. It was a woman too, and one apparently ill prepared to meet such weather. For she had not changed either her house-dress or shoes, and the only protection she had adopted was to draw her black shawl over her head, holding it with one hand tightly under her chin, while with the other she seemed to steady herself against the fury of the elements. Stealthily she looked to one side and to the other, as if to ascertain that there was none to ob serve her ; then she passed rapidly and noiselessly down the street, without meeting any one that might have questioned her progress. A hasty glance at the windows still lit up, and the shadows of figures moving behind the blinds, seemed to satisfy her that her business was not with the quiet homes of happy families.

Only once did she stop at the outskirts of the town before a cottage, where, approaching as closely as she might without being observed, she tried to look in through the ill-fitting curtains. The room was low and scantily furnished, but scrupulously clean. By the light of a small oil lamp, an old woman was reading from a large family Bible to a lad, apparently about sixteen years old. A moment's pause, and then onward, still onward passed the dark figure, now faster, as if pursued or A TERRIBLE NIGHT. 3 driven by some power she could not resist. The storm without seemed not to allay, but rather to raise the storm within. Presently she had left the town and reached the open road, skirted on the one side by the loch, and hemmed in on the other by a sloping hill which gradually merged into the mountains.

More mercilessly than while within the sheltering range of the houses did the wind and rain beat in the face of the women. But more determinately and rapidly than before did she pursue her way through night and storm. About half a mile beyond the town stood the ruins of an old church, deserted and moss-covered. Around where the living had met for worship, the dead were now gathered to their rest. Narrow beds for the dead everywhere : in chancel, around the tower, and luxuriantly spreading as it were out of the church into its garden or God's-acre; turf-covered beds and beds overgrown with long rank grass; fresh beds and old beds ; large beds and small beds ; beds carefully railed in, and beds over which careless feet might stray without waking the sleepers below; beds lovingly tended and covered with flowers, and beds lonely and deserted ; beds with crosses to lean upon, and beds with curiously graven headstones, whose inscriptions told of the lives of the dead and the hopes of the living — a mass of homes of the dead, irregularly thrown together, and partitioned by paths and walks, each home covering along with its shapeless dust the memory of nameless joys now all past, and the germ of brighter hopes yet to be realized.

Deftly, through that blinding drift of rain, the woman found her way across a low wall which separated the city of the dead from the road of the living ! Like one that knew it well, she passed carefully between the mounds, till she reached a grave, where she sank down exhausted on the soaking, fresh turf. She stretched out her arms, as if to feel for something. The wind blew the thin covering from her head, and the rain washed her hot cheeks. She clasped the rude stone that marked the name and age of the dead, with what other brief thoughts or hopes love could hew on it; she embraced it, she clung to it, she rocked to and fro in an uncontrollable passion of agony. It was as if this wild night had thrown around her a sheltering veil, under which, concealed from observation, she might give herself up to the luxury of indulging in a very storm of weeping.

And still the wind and rain beat about her long, loose, dishevelled hair, which now swung about her shoulders. At last her passion seemed to have exhausted itself. She rose, and with unsteady, faltering steps regained the road. Just at this moment through a break in the clouds the pale moonlight fell on the surface of the loch which lay at her feet. There was a strange fascination to her in the dull sound of those waves, which rose and fell. She looked down upon them ; for an instant A TERRIBLE NIGHT. 5 she appeared irresolute; the next she had taken the narrow path which led down to the loch. Her mood seemed to have become wilder, and her bearing more unrestrained. She flung her arms about ; she spoke aloud all the time she followed that winding path, now repeating to herself snatches of songs, then broken and disjointed sentences.

They were songs she once had sung to him; sentences, sayings, expressions of endearment, which stood in her memory as way-marks in the history of her life. Now she had reached the bottom of the hill, and was stepping among the stones laid but yesterday by the boys who had been playing and angling by the waterside. The moonlight had again been extinguished by the heavy clouds, and down at the loch the wind moaned heavier and the rain beat more fiercely. She was moving about among those loose stones, from which the boys had constructed a kind of rude pier into the loch. A step on the slippery stones, yet another, and more rapidly a third, — then the foot slipped: a heavy splash, a suppressed cry, — and the voice no more repeats snatches of songs nor broken and disjointed sen tences.

Chapter II. Alone At Home

" 5TL CANNA' rest, Harry; I canna' gang to sleep. p-lf I have thocht and prayed, but I canna' get owr't. I feel it sae grousum.* I dinna ken why. I am no flayed, f and I dinna believe in what 's uncanny ; for " ' God is our Refuge and our Strength, In straits a present aid.' "But it's an awfu' nicht: a fearsome nicht! I wonner hoo that puir, lone woman is, and the bairnies ? This is the first nicht he is far frae her, doon in the auld kirkyard." Old nurse Peggy Goodwin was not demonstrative, but the big tears y/ere coursing down her cheeks, as she stood almost wringing her hands, and looking helplessly before her. "Ye see, she wad' nae let me bide wi' her," con tinued Peggy, lamenting to herself; "and she is sae strange. Ah, if I could only be sure that she was ane o' His ain ! " She moved restlessly to the window, trying in vain to peer through the gloom, or to hear any * Awe inspiring. t Afraid. more definite sound than that of rain and wind.

Family worship was long past. She had chosen for that night the most precious consolations given in the Word to the widow and the fatherless, and the most blessed assurances that He would never leave nor forsake His own. Never had her heart been so full, as when she tried to plead for those in deep distress, whom she loved so dearly ; and yet strangely did she feel as if every now and then her tongue had seemed to be holden, so that she could not speak. Assuredly that night her con fidence must not come from her own faith, but from His faithfulness. Then, worship over, she had tried in succession to read, to talk, and to knit. But it had been all to no purpose. A feverish restlessness had seized the old woman, which her grandson, unaccustomed to such a mood in her, had sought in vain to allay.

" Na, I canna' thole * it nae maire : I maun gang at ony rate to the hoose, and see gif they be a' quiet and bedded." And after all the old woman's resolution was the best and wisest in the circumstances, though Harry tried to shake it with such arguments as occurred to him. Perhaps, however, he was himself not too much in earnest about preventing his grandmother's purpose. The feverish anxiety, so unusual in one whom he always saw so placid and immovable, had communicated itself to him. Besides, he had per- * Bear, endure. sonal reasons for distress and uneasiness ; and when Peggy gave him leave to accompany her, carefully wrapping him in a large woollen muffler of her own construction, and herself in a big tartan shawl, all his objections seemed to have vanished. "A wild nicht: a fearsome nicht!" repeated Peggy Goodwin, as the rushing wind rendered it impossible for her to hold up the large red family umbrella, and drove a stream of rain against her face and dress.

" The Lord have mercy upon those on the sea ! " and after a pause, and more slowly, " and on those who mourn their lane at hame ! " Not another word passed between the two. As they reached the large old house, whence the figure of the woman had emerged an hour ago, the clock struck eleven. "A licht upstairs!" said the old woman, hastily glancing up. Entering under the arched doorway, they ascended the winding stair which led up to the several dwellings. When they reached the top of the first flight, nurse Goodwin turned sharply round and grasped her grandson's arm. "What is it?" whispered Harry. "I dinna ken; I dinna ken! but I feel it sae ticht aboot the heart." Then by a significant pressure stopping Harry's further progress, the old woman crept to the door, and peered through its chinks.

The dim light struggling through the crazy door showed nurse Goodwin but imperfectly the interior of the room. It was a large and comfortable, although humbly furnished apartment. An oil-lamp, with coarse wick, stood on the table, and on a chair close by sat a girl about thirteen years old, trying gently to rock into continuous sleep a little boy who lay in her lap, his fair head and curls resting against her heart. The occupation seemed wholly to engage the child, for she had not heard the approach of nurse Goodwin, and still kept her head bent down with such intent earnestness of purpose as apparently to swallow up every other thought. Both children were dressed in deepest mourning. A large clock on the wall kept up its slow, loud, melancholy ticking, as the pendulum swung to and fro. Nurse Goodwin opened and shut the door behind her as gently as she could.

Mary started. A look of intense relief seemed for a moment to steal over her face, and then quickly gave place, first to disappointment, next to astonishment, as she recognised her visitor. " You, nursey ! " The rest was cut short by the movements of the little sleeper, who was giving every indication of a speedy and noisy waking. Mary cast a troubled look about her, and then bestowed once more her undivided attention upon her charge. Nurse Goodwin quickly laid aside her umbrella and shawl. With a commanding gesture she took the child from Mary. The little sleeper, so far from starting, soon gave evidence by his deeper breathing of increased confidence, occasioned by the more capacious embrace of Peggy. "Bless me, child," asked nursey, after a pause, during which she had evidently tried properly to shape her question — and the better to do this to put it into good English — "Why aren't you in bed, miss, which of course it is for in time; and why aren't he undressed, which of course he ought for to be?" nodding towards the sleeper in her arms.

" We are waiting for mother." " For mother ? Bless me, child, and where is she ?" " I don't know, Peggy ; she has been out and in all the evening." Peggy did not seem to care to make further inquiry. "An awfu' nicht!" resumed the nurse. "Keep up the fire, child, which of course it ought to be, against your mither comes hame. We'll just bide till she wins back. May be, and they're keepin' her till it clears a bit. Just tell Harry to come ben." Master Harry was by nature a shy, awkward lad. He had just reached the age when most young persons find it so extremely difficult to dispose of their feet and hands, as to be often sorely tempted to wish themselves without those otherwise needful appendages. Besides, Master Harry had an exceedingly awkward habit of blushing, in season and out of season.

Notwithstanding the frown on his grandmother's face, he now found it no easy task to walk across the room to the nearest vacant chair, and there properly to dispose of his feet and hands. His uneasiness displayed itself by constant but ineffectual attempts to set himself right upon the chair. Between Peggy and Mary a conversation was for some time carried on in whispers. By and by it seemed to flag, and the child's head drooped on her breast. Peggy Goodwin could not sleep. Her anxiety increased with every figure to which the finger on the clock successively pointed. How slowly time seemed to pass, and yet how quickly it fled ! Twelve, — one, — two, — and then three — had struck on the church clock. Peggy strained her ears in vain to listen for an approaching footfall on street or stair. At length, unable any longer to restrain her apprehensions, she rose, laid the sleeping child on the bed, and whispered to Harry to go at once for — "Let me see: lawyer Bullins?

No, no," she added, correcting herself: "for Mr. Wiggins, which of course" — but here her favourite logical expletive remained unsupported. But Harry had not waited for the conclusion of his grandmother's sentence. With lighter foot than usual he passed across the floor, and soon his steps were lost down the street. Nurse Goodwin sat quite alone. The children were asleep. The coarse wick in the lamp burnt more dimly ; the clock on the wall seemed to tick more loudly. The rain had ceased, and the grey daylight was beginning to stream in through the window. Footsteps in the distance. "Mr. Wiggins and Harry," murmured nurse Goodwin, with a sigh of relief. " Na', it canna' be," she corrected herself: " may be the workmen," as the footsteps approached nearer and nearer. Slow, measured footsteps they were, advancing with a peculiar regularity of tread.

Nurse Good win had gone to the window, but the footsteps had entered by the arched doorway, and were slowly coming up the stairs. Peggy threw the door wide open, and the daylight streamed down the narrow winding stair. One man in advance of the other footsteps, beckoned Peggy to retreat. The old woman stood as rooted to the spot. She had not the power to move; no, not even to open the door of the adjoining closet, to which the man on the stair now pointed. But she felt that a trembling little hand was laid on her shoulder. " Gang back ; tak' the child wi' ye. This is no sicht for the like o' her!" hoarsely whispered the man on the stairs. If Peggy's life had depended upon the move ment, she could not at that moment have changed her position. The hand and arm resting on her shoulder trembled more violently.

For a moment the man on the stair hesitated; then, turning to those below him, who were still concealed by the winding of the stair, gave them directions in a softened voice. "Slow, carefu'; mind the turn in the stair. So — steady." And with this, emerging from the gloom, appeared two men, balancing themselves on the narrow staircase, mounting it sideways, and carry ing between them on their shoulders what seemed a broad board, or perhaps the shutter of a shop window. A third man, accompanying them, seemed engaged in keeping the burden steady. Before they reached the highest step on the flight of stairs, they paused. Their former spokesman now joined them. Slowly they lifted down their burden. It was covered, but the movement seemed to disturb its position. An arm rolled out from under the canvas cover, and then a hand fell heavily over the side of the shutter.

The burden was in danger, and the men tried to steady it. In the attempt, the canvas covering became partially removed. A head rolled heavily to the other side; long, black, wet hair, dripping streams of water, as it fell over the side of the shutter. All this within less time than it takes to read or write it. "Mother!" shrieked a voice beside Peggy. The next moment Mary fell heavily forward on the canvas-covered form on the shutter.

Chapter III. Which Gives The History Of The Hewitts

§ SWEET bright summer's morning had succeeded the wild night of terrors. The air felt cool and balmy ; the unclouded sky was reflected in the waters of the loch on which not a ripple stirred; the sunlight lay in grey and purple colouring on the mountains, that stood out in sharply defined outline against the blue heaven. The usual knot of gossippers had gathered in the market-place, under the eaves of the projecting church roof. This time they discussed with bated breath the events of the night. It was an accident, the more charitable suggested ; others shook their heads, as though they could, if they would, give a far different account of the matter. The most part propounded that she had always been "strange," and that the death of her husband had driven her "demented."* On one point all seemed agreed, that more information was highly desirable.

But how to procure it was the difficulty. Lawyer Bullins was churlish, Mr. Wiggins inaccessible, and * Out of her mind. from the minister a wide gulf separated the multitude of local newsmongers. Indeed, the Hewitts had always been more or less a mystery to Runtingdon. In the North popular opinion of men is formed not so much by what they have as by what they are, or rather by what they and theirs have been. But when old William Hewitt first settled in the town, about three gene rations ago, no one knew whence he came, nor what his "belongings" had been, — a point of no small interest to the Scottish mind. And he grew up among them, so to speak, a power, by such gradual, slow progress, that the arrival of the unknown lad was only remembered when he was promoted to be head-clerk in his employer's business, — to which in due course he succeeded.

Then William Hewitt became an object of attraction, not only to the steady, industrious citizens, who liked to deal with the methodical, punctual man, but also to the fair spinsters, of whom Runtingdon boasted a considerable proportion. The same line of conduct which had brought him thus far on in the world, continued to promote his prosperity. In those days it was not so common to indulge in public meetings, speeches, and presentations, where it is conclusively shown how certain civic measures and personages are indispensable to the welfare of the community, of the country, and indirectly of the world at large, whose eyes are always fastened with hungry eagerness upon the persons and doings of our borough-notabilities. Still, Run tingdon knew how to honour its Hewitt. He was made "Provost;" and when he passed through the street, the respectful obeisance of the older, and the hushed conversation of the younger, part of the population indicated the esteem in which he was held.

In due time Mr. Hewitt married, — not, as had been expected, the daughter of some well-to-do burgher, but a quiet maiden from the country. She was much his junior, very retiring, very gentle, and, above all, very good. Without being hand some, she was attractive. As the world goes, it was decidedly a foolish match; and so all Run tingdon pronounced it at the time, with more or less comment. But it was impossible to be long angry with Mrs. Hewitt, even for marrying one of the few bachelors available at Runtingdon. So she came to be tolerated, and then respected; till at last it passed into the general opinion, first mooted at a select tea-party by the Notary Public, with a significant tap on his silver snuff-box, that Mr. and Mrs. Hewitt were singularly suited to each other. Though the Notary Public was not generally very correct, except in the way of making out his own accounts, he was so in this instance.

Surely, a happier couple never lived than the Hewitts. They were all in all to each other. They never needed company; and they never wanted occupation. Mrs. Hewitt's piety was like the rest of her being — transparent, genuine, and calm. As for Mr. Hewitt, he was a truly good man, though very retiring in his professions. But, perhaps, in those days evangelical religion may have been somewhat different in its manifestations, though it was none the less deep or true in its character. When, after some years' marriage, Mrs. Hewitt presented her husband with a son, the cup of their happiness seemed almost too full to be carried. But this, the crowning, was also the closing joy of their life. Years had so gently passed over William Hewitt as to make both him and his wife forget the progress of time.

At last the separation came, — as come it must to all. It was perhaps less violent, but even more sad than usually. Mr. Hewitt met death with the assured hope of a Christian. He kissed and blessed the child; he dwelt with a lingering look of love upon his wife, and his hand rested on hers till it stiffened in death. To her, life was henceforth quite other. The blinds in her home had been drawn down, and the sun never shone in again as before. She waited, as it were, not as one watching by a sleeper, but as one who longeth to lie down and rest beside him. Henceforth she was, if possible, even more quiet, more gentle, and more still than before. All on earth, except her child, was to her only a remembrance, — and even he was a remembrance of the one who filled her whole existence. Yet it was not c a painful, only a sad remembrance — a thing that could never be again, and still ever was.

It is marvellous how rapidly some families seem destined to get up, and others to go down in the world. The death of old William proved the first step in the downcome of the Hewitts. The second was the failure of the Notary Public, in whose hands the affairs of the family had been left, through the misconduct of his son. Like so many other rogues, the youth was popularly reported "uncommonly clever." The only real claim he had ever had to the description must have lain in the manner in which he disposed of the pro perty entrusted to his father's care. On the day of his sudden disappearance from Runtingdon, Mrs. Hewitt, as many others, found herself almost destitute. Happily, she had retained in her own possession the title-deeds of one large "land."* Into this the widow now removed with her child; and the rental derived from the rest of the house constituted her sole and somewhat scanty means of subsistence.

Another stage in the decline of the Hewitts was the sudden death of the widow, ere her son Robert had passed his twelfth year. The legal guardian appointed did as seemed best to him in the difficult circumstances. He selected the most pretentious among those " scholastic establishments for young * The term applied in Scotland to a large tenement, in habited by a number of families. gentlemen," which advertise at low rates, "inclusive of all." That "all" seemed to "include" a good deal of dirt, neglect, and hunger. Humble as Mrs. Hewitt's means had been, the contrast between the past and the present was indeed terrible to young Robert. He came to school without cakes or sweets; and he had no friend among the boys. He came without parents or relations; and he had no patron in master or ushers.

Whatever went wrong was sure to be laid to the charge of young Hewitt; whatever went right brought neither praise nor alleviation to him. There were eight beds in his small, close room. The mattresses were dirty, the sheets were coarse and torn, the blankets were black; and Robert had to do whatever the other seven boys chose to lay upon him. In the school room he was cuffed, in the play-ground he was beaten, till his very life became a weariness unto him. Had Robert been endowed with the sensitive ness of his mother, he would have sunk under this treatment; had he possessed the quiet, indomitable energy of his father, he would have fought his way victoriously through it. It may be said, that there is an aspect of virtue which leans to the side of vice, — and young Robert seemed to have taken up all his parents' virtues, as it were, in the wrong way.

He was not gentle, but weak; not energetic, but impulsive; not courageous, but rash. With such a disposition, it may be imagined what influence his training at the "Scholastic Establishment" exercised upon his future course. The hopeful points mostly crushed out of him, under constant suspicions, persecutions, and meannesses, and the bad qualities well developed, he happily remained not long enough to be completely ruined. By the advice of a boy, much older than himself, and who through life remained alike his companion and his bane, he ran away from school. With the consent of his guardian, who, of course, declared him unmanageable, he apprenticed himself to a respectable trade. This step proved well chosen; for Robert was quick, and could work with a will, especially when he had an object in view.

The object in view in this case was the daughter of a small farmer in the neighbourhood of the place where Robert was apprenticed. She was the sister of his boy-friend at school, through whom he had been introduced to the family. The Bullins shared certain of those national peculiarities of Scotland which are so apt to develop into faults. Though poor, they were proud and reserved, and would have banished the young apprentice from their home, had it occurred to them that he could have aspired to the hand of their Katie. But it never did occur to them, and that simply because they never observed the maiden, nor understood her character. Whether or not, like many other traits in Scottish every-day life, it forms one of those strange coincidences between the Scottish and the Jewish character, which' so forcibly strike the observer, certain it is that, among at least one class of the population, the female is lightly esteemed as compared with the male portion of a family.

Undoubtedly it was so with the Bullins. Farmer Bullins had had three children, two sons and a daughter. The former were petted and spoiled, the latter ignored and neglected. The eldest boy had in turn run away, enlisted, married, broken the heart of his wife, and left two children helpless orphans, dependent on his parents. Farmer Bullins dearly loved his savings, and scanty enough they were to be fully appreciated ; but though Aleck Bullins had when a boy stolen the coppers from the " hugger"* behind his father's pillow, and when a man wasted his earnings in riotous living, yet his father con doned these offences, even as his mother that of his marriage, which in her inmost mind she considered as the gravest he had ever committed. The other son, William, who had been Robert Hewitt's friend and school-companion, was now to be trained for a " writer," f although the cost of his education weighed heavily upon the resources of the family.

Unfortunately he gave early promise of following in the wake of his brother, so far as his vices were concerned. As for the only girl, Katie, she was considered as a mere appendage — who was there, and therefore must be made something of. She * The footless stocking in which the Scottish peasantry are wont to hoard up their little savings. t A country solicitor. got her " schooling," and careful enough it was, for the Scottish love and esteem for education is irre pressible. In the parish school she acquired a great deal that she could not well have been without, and in the " ladies' seminary," which she next attended as a "day scholar," not a little with which she might have dispensed to great advantage. At home her life was divided between being made subservient to her brothers, doing the work of a domestic drudge, and being indiscriminately scolded and abused all round.